


The Weight that Grounds Him

by emion



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Exit Wounds, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emion/pseuds/emion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re so sick of this, sick of not being able to care for yourself, sick of the things that are holding you down from living your life. You know it shouldn't feel like this, and you sure do know that you haven’t grieved like this before. Then, you wonder if you truly have grieved at all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight that Grounds Him

The day you are going to die, you wake up in someone else’s bed. It’s not the room itself that gives it away, nor is it the too crisp sheets or the too soft pillow. No, it’s the too slight frame of the person sleeping next to you, which makes you turn the other way and scrunch your face together. 

 

You feign sleep for another ten minutes before you decide to make your way to the bathroom. You stagger out of the bed, trying hard not the wake the bed’s other occupant. When you reach the hallway, you hear noises from the living room, and you make your way in that direction instead, one hand clutching the side of your head and the other scribbling the wall for support. You look down to the carpeted floor and you realise that you hadn’t even removed your socks last night. Your suit is a down right mess.

 

Rhys is smiling at you when you enter the living room. You can’t find it in you to smile back, so you just take the seat next to him on the sofa. He is scrutinizing you, you know it, and you also know that you look as if you've been to hell and back. You try to not listen to him when he mutters something about doctors and making things better, squeezing your eyes shut and willing reality to just go away.

 

It doesn’t work that way, not today, and a few minutes later a kiss is pressed to the top of your head and Gwen’s voice is floating in the room, soothing words that are like poison to your ears. No, you don’t want to tell Jack, and no, it’s not a big deal. You tell them that it’ll go away, that everything will go away, and you know they don’t really comprehend the meaning behind the words when Rhys simply pats your arm and Gwen ruffles your hair.

 

You’re so sick of this, sick of not being able to care for yourself, sick of the things that are holding you down from living your life. You know it shouldn’t feel like this, and you sure do know that you haven’t grieved like this before. Then, you wonder if you truly have grieved at all.

 

You accept the offered coffee with a faked smile, one you know can be spotted from the hub if someone was looking. You know there isn’t and the smile stays plastered on your face until you run out of excuses to stay and simply leave. You know you are a burden to Gwen and Rhys, an overgrown child who can’t stand spending the night alone in an empty flat.

 

You know he is coming back. It’s only for a couple of days, but the meeting is in London, and that city has a tendency to take everything you love and turn it into something you will be having nightmares about. 

 

***

 

The tiles on your bathroom floor are cold, and you reach for a towel to sit on. You have a hole in your heart. A piece of flesh simply ripped away, leaving a gaping wound. They want to fix it, but they don’t see how much it’s bleeding. They can’t feel the size of it, or how it’s crushing you from the inside. It’s killing you, slowly. You have known for a while now, that Jack wants to say those three words to you, but you won’t let him. It’s not for him to say, not when it’s what the monster said to manipulate you. 

 

Those words are just that, words, with barbed wire running around the letters. Those three words hurt in a way you can’t really explain. Jack certainly doesn’t understand it, the hurt in his eyes evident every time you slap your hand across his mouth or crushing your lips together to keep him from saying it. Because they are not about love, they are about deception. You are tired of being betrayed, and you are tired of betraying. You are so tired. You lean back on the side if the baths tub. You are so tired.

 

Your phone rings and really, you shouldn’t pick it up. But your good manners run too deep, and the annoying ringtone echoes in the bathroom and you do pick it up, only to hear a woman’s voice on the other end. Ten seconds in the conversation, and you know your sister’s been worrying. Five minutes later in her monologue, and you realise just how much. You brush away the silent tears that are running down your cheeks as you wonder how your sister became one of those unfamiliar, tinny voices on the other side of a phone call. 

 

The concerns she’s voicing are all justified. She wonders where you are, if someone’s there with you, if there’s anyone she should call. Three months of not hearing her voice and the hole in your heart is expanding beyond belief. You can’t suppress the sobs anymore and you cry. For the first time in three months, you let out everything that’s been eating you away, and you can barely make out Rhiannon’s soothing noises on the other end. When you try to breathe it’s as if you can’t, as if something’s stuck and you know that it’s the grief. Rhiannon tells you that everything’s gonna be alright if you just hold on and you want to believe her, you really do. 

 

So you open the toilet lid and empty the bottle of pills, and you can hear Rhiannon’s intake of breath when the sound of them hitting the water reaches her on the other end of the phone. Flush, she tells you, and you do. Then, Ianto, and there is not an ounce of relief in her voice. You sob again before giving her Jack’s number. 

 

***

 

He grabs you, pulls you into his arms. You don’t fight it; you just lean into his embrace and let your hands rest on his shoulder blades. It’s comforting, the way his fingers are playing with the not-quite curls at the nape of your neck. It’s reassuring, the way he whispers to your skin, as if it’s your body he wants to talk to.

 

You clutch at his shoulder blades, and you can’t help but to think that Jack deserves to have wings, and that this, the place where your hands are grasping for something to hold on to, this would be the place for them to grow.

 

Then you realise that no, you don’t want Jack to have wings, because, if he did, he would take off and reach for the stars. He would test his limits, like Icarus, and you are certain that the sun would burn him. And Jack would fall, and this time, you wouldn't possess the strength to catch him.

 

So you clutch tighter, because you know that you are the weight that grounds him.

 

(But you can’t help but wondering whether, for both of your sakes, it would better if you grabbed on tighter or simply let go.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was officially the first fanfic I wrote for this fandom in 2009, and I thought it inappropriate to be the first fic posted on my account here. It can also be found on LJ (emion_lemot.livejournal.com).


End file.
